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“Well, brothers, but yes. My twin and the middle one as well. Cut from the same cloth, those two. My youngest brother is more like me. He’s my favorite. Then again, I wouldn’t be who I am without Lowell. I’d be lost.”
“I don’t know, a poli-sci professor doesn’t seem like the worst thing to be.”
“You’re clearly not a Foster-Webb.”
He hoped he didn’t sound too bitter, but it hadn’t been easy to grow up in a family like that. If something didn’t involve money or power, why would you bother? As if joy wasn’t a thing, as if pleasure wasn’t reason enough.
“Clearly not. But I’d like to hear more about your family. About you.”
“Ditto. So why don’t we get to know each other a little better? I’ll rub your feet while we talk.”
Shannon tilted her head and then took another sip of water while she studied him. “Why would you do that?”
“I feel like bringing you a cup of water isn’t sufficient aftercare and I get the sense you work pretty hard and could use some pampering. Plus, I have a need to keep my hands busy. I’d rather do something productive like give you a well-deserved massage than destroy this cup.”
It wasn’t his favorite thing about himself, but it was a trait he’d learned to manage, always keeping a pen on hand to click, click, click. He’d envied people their fidget spinners and knitting and other ways to keep their hands occupied but it wouldn’t do for an American Congressman to be doodling during meet and greets with constituents or crocheting during the State of the Union. Clearly the omnipresent writing implements hadn’t done much to manage his stress though.
“Sounds good to me,” she said, slipping off her shoes and turning sideways to set her feet in his lap.
Well, shit. He’d never thought of himself as having a foot fetish but maybe he’d been wrong. Or maybe it was just that this woman he was infatuated had just placed a warm, weighty part of herself painfully close to his dick.
“Why don’t you start with exactly how many siblings you have while you work on my arches?”
